“So there is money to be made in writing books.”
Back when there were bookstores and before people only read 140 letters at a time, she thought but didn’t say. “If your book is good, yes, it can make money.”
“So maybe you’ll give me some writing tips. You know, as one author to another.”
Sara knew the session was over. Would-be writers were obsessive creatures. They could think of nothing else. She stifled a yawn. “I’m not a young person,” she said tiredly—and could almost hear Jack say, “Don’t play the age card.”
“I need to rest.”
“Of course.” When she stood up, he pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “My private email is on the back.”
She wasn’t surprised to see it was “bestseller2846.” Poor man. He had it bad. “So what about Mr. Howland?”
“Like I said, suicide. But we’ll have to wait for an official verdict. No one is to leave before I release you.”
Hope we don’t have to wait until after my agent gets you a movie deal, Sara thought but just smiled. She left the room, closing the door behind her. Jack and Kate and Puck were waiting for her.
“Well?” Jack asked.
“Wants to write a book.”
Jack and Kate groaned, but Puck looked askance. No one explained.
“Bed!” Sara said, and they all went upstairs.
Fifteen
The next morning, Sara was awakened by Bella bursting into her room.
“This!” Bella’s voice was a controlled screech. She tossed a newspaper onto Sara, who could hardly be seen under the big down comforter.
Reluctantly, Sara rolled over and picked up the paper. It was one of the English tabloids that opened like a book. Usually, Sara loved them. They had the meanest, nastiest, most rotten gossip anyone had ever read. If it were printed in the US, there would be protestors with placards. But the British press was different.
She had to clear her eyes to be able to see—then wished she’d kept them closed. Murder at Oxley Manor? the headline read. Her mind couldn’t quite comprehend what she was reading. Wonder what size font that is. Sixty-eight? Or is it bigger?
Bella was looming over her. Her face was one giant sneer. “You have done this.” She barely spoke above a whisper, but it was scary.
“I’m sorry,” Sara said. “But it wasn’t me who said we thought Mr. Howland was murdered.” At Bella’s expression, Sara thought, Uh-oh. Wrong choice of words.
Bella stepped backward and dropped down onto a little gold chair. “Do you know how hard I worked to get this place? My mother left me nothing. My father’s wife made sure I was given nothing. I got out of school and I was alone. Penniless.”
Sara was listening with wide eyes. In all their years of emails and visits, Bella had told her next to nothing about her life. But then, Sara hadn’t shared the worst parts of her past either. Privacy was one of the things she liked best about their friendship. But as a lover of stories, she wanted to hear.
“I was in love,” Bella said. “I was to be married, but when he found out that Oxley Manor wasn’t to be mine, that I wouldn’t get even a dower cottage, he left me.”
Sara bit her tongue to keep from saying the cliché about how he wasn’t worth having. But she didn’t want to interrupt the story.
“Bertram,” Bella said. “He...” She took a breath. “Do you know what it’s like to suddenly have no one? No family? Nothing?”
“Yes,” Sara said. “I do.”
Bella ignored Sara’s confession. Standing up, she pointed at the paper. “You caused this scandal. This must stop! I will not have everything I’ve worked for destroyed.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.
Sara read the article. It was worse than she’d imagined. And it was all about her. It said that:
The “famous” author—who no one admits having heard of—Sara Medlar, is stirring up trouble. Is it just so she can revive her dead career?
It said that Sara had been discarded by the publishing world and now needed international publicity to put her books back on the market: